


Hold on Hope

by somethingclever



Series: Tim IS a caring and nurturing person. [8]
Category: Justified
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, swearing like sailors, tim whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-23 02:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: Fourth of July - cookouts and family and patriotism, oo-rah!And fireworks. Lots of fucking fireworks, screaming children, and the smell of powder.  There's no way this can go right.





	1. I know the shame in your defeat

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is completely written and will be posted over the course of the week - should be two chapters, possibly three. Title and chapter titles are from Mumford and Sons, 'The Cave'.

Tim joked about his PTSD episodes, about the military, and about injuries and death and essentially all the shit he shouldn’t joke about.  After this, Raylan didn’t think he’d ever be able to stand him joking, not seeing him crumple up next to the car – it was running, radio on, in neutral not park, and Artie was screaming, red-faced and wordless, Tim’s arms around his knees, head down, turned away for his son, and the side door open, the ringing of the door adding to the cacophony. 

Raylan put the truck in park, and turned it off – the quiet made Artie’s screams shriller, and he stepped around Tim to unbuckle him from his car seat.  The toddler wriggled, babbling about something being scary, sobbing for daddy and reaching for Tim. Tim didn’t reach back, and Raylan took Artie inside, panic  building in his chest.  Tim wasn’t okay- wasn’t even close to okay.   _Shit_.  Should he call an ambulance? Would that even help?

Artie settled right down in his playpen, grabbing onto his stuffed bear and wrapping around it, thumb going into his mouth and screams turning to whimpers.

Okay. Okay, he could go get Tim.  He left the door open so he’d hear if Artie needed him, and went out to Tim.  Tim was looking up now, eyes squinting at the sky, tears streaked down his face.

Fireworks went off behind Raylan, and it all clicked into place as Tim flinched.

July fuckin’ third, and shitheads were already shooting off bottle rockets and flares and… well. Some fucking freedom, to terrify people like Tim.

“Hey, Tim?” Raylan said, “You with me, sunshine?”

Tim didn’t look at him – not really – and Raylan sucked the inside of his cheek, looking up at the sky too.  It was just starting to get dusk, heat still rippling from the asphalt and the air thick and sweaty.  “Tim, come on, honey, _please_.” He didn’t know what to fucking _do_ …

It was painful to see him come back to himself, blink at the sky, and then tilt his head to look at Raylan, looking confused for an instant – and then he was on his feet, looking at the empty car seat in horror, “ _Arthur_ ,” he gasped in a terrible voice Raylan never wanted to hear again. 

“He’s inside, he’s okay,” Raylan said, reaching for his shoulder, “I got him. You’re okay, he’s okay, it’s all _okay_ , Tim.”

“Not… not fucking…” Tim shook his hand off, “ _Not okay_ ,” he got up, wobbling on his feet, slamming the car door, and Raylan barely caught his wrist before he pulled back and hit the vehicle.

“Breakin’ your hand isn’t gonna help you!” Raylan snapped, “You wanna fight, asshole, fight _me_.”

Tim looked at him, “I don’t know how to say this, but I would fucking kill you without half trying, and then I would have to _live_ with that. So don’t, _ever_ , say that to me again.”

“Tim, I’m just trying to help-“

“Well, don’t,” Tim snapped, dusting himself off and heading for the door, “I don’t want it.”  Raylan followed him into the house, his temper starting to flare - fuck you, too, asshole!- when Tim stopped in the doorway to the sitting room, his shoulders slumping as he looked in at Artie, who was singing his ABC’s and completely messing up from K to V. “I couldn’t get my hands to work,” Tim said, “I couldn’ get him out.” 

Raylan took a slow breath, and settled his hand on Tim’s hip, “He’s okay.”

“He wasn’t,” Tim said, turning towards him and hiding his face in Raylan’s shoulder, tremors shaking him, “I couldn’t get him out.”


	2. I won't let you choke (on the noose around your neck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always aftermath, and the storm surge can do more damage than the storm itself.

Tim truly wished that having all he wanted out of life would just make... all of the shit stay _shat_ , but life just didn't work that way for him.  
  
He had the best damn kids in the world- Willa was his, too, dammit!- and he had the perfect-for-him partner in Raylan. So why on god's green earth couldn't he just… stop being a goddamn dipshit fuckup? He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, wondering when he'd actually wake up and realize that no, the shit was his life, and his son and partner were the dream.  
  
He couldn't stop, not since goddamn Fourth of July had set him off this year (it was October, now, and the spiral still swirled to drag him down)- he'd been driving with Artie in the back, listening to him singing some little kid song – Tim had looked in the baby-view mirror to see him for just a second, a millisecond, and some _shithead_ had fired Roman candles in front of his truck, fire spreading across his windshield, the popping sound of firecrackers suddenly threatening and deadly.  
  
He still didn't know how he got home.  Artie had cried and cried and _cried,_ and Raylan had to get him out of his car seat, because Tim's hands wouldn't work.  Tim couldn't remember how Raylan got him to bed, either, because he was pretty sure he fought, but he remembered Raylan's voice telling him he was okay, and ‘goddamnit, Tim, take these pills'!

Two days he’d spent in the bedroom in the dark and the quiet, trying to get a grip on his anxiety and panic and the overwhelming dread of everything _outside_ …  
  
Artie slid pictures he’d drawn under his door.  Raylan brought him food, sat with him, slept next to him, wrapped Tim in his arms like touching him wasn’t disgusting.  His psychiatrist he hadn't spoken to since he was a Marshal called and Tim listened to him blather because it was just noise, and it was one thing he _could_ do for Raylan…

And then, like that, the worst of it was over, and he could come out of his room, scooping Artie into his arms – his boy was sitting in front of his door like he’d been there a while, and lit up like a miniature sun when Tim came out.  He was half-suffocated by hugs and kisses and if he cried, well, Artie wouldn’t notice.

The worst was over, but the clouds remained, and Tim… did his best, and figured he fooled Artie, at least, and Raylan, mostly.

He was okay.

*  
  
Raylan was, thankfully, out of town a few nights, chasing a fugitive all the way to Texas- Tim told him to buy himself a new hat while he was out, and Raylan laughed and agreed maybe he'd do that, and had gone back to work.  _He'd be back in a few days, Tim..._  
  
Tim finished the bottle of cheap booze – not like the taste mattered anyhow - and held Artie close, read him six stories instead of two, sat by his door as his son fell asleep.  
  
This wasn't good, hiding what he was doing from Raylan, and it sure wasn't good, drunk with his kid home from daycare and Raylan not there, but Tim couldn't bring himself to stop.  He was fine.  He slept better after a few.  He covered his face with his hands and told himself he was fine. He could stop.  
  
He'd sleep okay and not wake up pinning Raylan to the bed.  
  
Flash of light across the windshield, his son’s voice turning to screams and the smell of burning meat... Tim jerked awake, uncurling himself from the carpeting in front of his son's door.  
  
He could remember Afghani children.  He'd seen them.  He'd never thought... he cracked open Artie’s door, watched his chest rise and fall, his hair still damp from his bath.  
  
He went downstairs to get another drink, watch something, anything, on tv.  
  
The next thing he knew, Raylan was back, standing over him on the couch, looking down at him with worried eyes, "You're home early?" Tim asked, sitting up.  God, he felt so _sick_...  
  
"No," Raylan said softly, "I'm not."  
  
...oh god. Where was Artie?  
  
He pushed past Raylan, going to his son's room, frantic and despairing- had he locked him in? Oh god, oh god, oh _god_ , where was his _son_...  
  
Artie smiled at him from his play desk,  his room a catastrophe, every toy pulled out, clothes on the floor and spilled juice left to dry.  "I made you this," he held up a play doh wad.  
  
Tim held himself up against the door frame, "Artie, honey," he said, "When did you eat?"  
  
"Lunch., peanut butter and goldfishes,” Artie replied, “Fruit snack? Can I have a fruit snack an’ more juice? I spilled my juice.” Tim trembled as Raylan came up the stairs behind him.

 _Oh god oh god oh god oh god someone shoot him please fucking kill him he was an asshole father he never wanted this._  
  
"Yeah honey, okay." He nodded and backed out of the room, turning blindly to look at Raylan, who looked so goddamn...

He got the juice, and the fruit snacks, blindly put them into Artie’s hands, and went out the back door. No. No. God.  
  
He pushed past him to go out back to the shed, locking the door behind him.  
  
Oh _god,_ he couldn't remember thirty-six hours... he covered his face with his hands, moaning under his breath. Anything could have happened to his son. _Anything._   He could have lost him, he could’ve died, could’ve _killed him_ …

  
"Tim. Tim, get your ass out here!” Raylan sounded both worried and pissed, "Don't make me kick the door in."  
  
Tim glared at the blank door, snarling curses under his breath as he flipped up the latch, "Raylan, I don't..."  
  
"You," Raylan said, stepping into his space, "Need to get some help. This shit? It’s gone on long enough. For fuck’s _sake._ I," he raised a hand to stop Tim speaking, "Will take care of Artie. Just... for god's sake, Tim, _get some help._ ” Tim swallowed hard, looking at him, and Raylan reached out, gently settling a hand on Tim’s shoulder, like he was worried Tim would crumble or explode, and Tim cringed under the hand – had he hurt Raylan, and couldn’t remember it?  “C’mere, darlin’,” Raylan urged softly, “C’mere.” Tim wrapped his arms around Raylan and held on for all he was worth.  _Please don't leave me, don't hate me, I’m so sorry, I thought I was…_ he wanted to beg, but he didn't.  
  
"I'll call the V.A.?"  
  
"Both know they're backlogged five years. You got insurance, same as me. Use it."  
  
Tim nodded, not letting go, and Raylan's arms were firm around his waist, taking weight off his legs.  Tim turned his face into Raylan's neck to breathe him in, "I don't know what happened," he said, "Anything could have..."  
  
"Nothing did. It looks like you made sure Artie ate- there's dishes in the washer and he went to daycare yesterday. I checked. You weren't scheduled to work anyhow, I don't believe... honey, it's okay. This time."  
  
Tim bit his lip, sucking in a deep breath, "I never should have taken him," he whimpered, "I was an idiot to think I could take care of a baby, Raylan. I’m…” _an asshole, like my dad._  
  
"He ain't a baby no more," Raylan said softly, "And he loves you very much."  
  
"Because he doesn't know any different. God, my son, Raylan, my _boy_ ," Tim choked, overwhelmed and closing his eyes helplessly against memories and what he’d thought he’d find in his son’s bedroom, "I can't... they were so small when they died and we just walked past them, and I never thought about their parents, Raylan, I never realized they were just babies, oh _god_ , what did we do?" He heard his voice turn into something of a wail, still breathless, muffled by Raylan's shoulder. “ _What have I done?”_  
  
"Shh, Tim. Shhhhh."  
  
"I-I..." Tim gulped, pulling back and scrubbing his face, desperate and determined to carry on.  Pick yourself up, soldier. "He needs dinner, I've gotta... get the alcohol outta the house, Raylan. Please."  
  
"Already done."  
  
"There's more-"  
  
"Under the sink in our bathroom, in the vent in the office, and two in the garage. I'm good at my job, Tim."  
  
"Remind me to never try to get shit past you."  
  
"You never would."  
  
"Well, remind me. Forgetting shit seems to be my style."  
  
"Honey, you could forget your name and social security number and I still don't think you would cheat on me," Raylan's hand wrapped around his hip and he pulled Tim in against himself, warm and comfortable, and the safest feeling in the world.  "Let me take care of you tonight, okay? And dinner."  
  
"I'm not helpless!" he couldn’t afford to be helpless, he needed to get up, he had to fight… what? What was there to fight?   
  
"Never thought that," Raylan said, "But I would dearly like if my partner would trust me enough to take care of feeding him and our son once in a great while."  
  
...well that was a low goddamn blow, and Tim told Raylan so.  Raylan just grinned, and Tim went to take a shower while Raylan got some pasta boiling and chicken cooking.  
  
He couldn't remember when he'd eaten last, and didn't want to ask Artie about it. Based on the way his belly felt, he'd say a few days.  God, he hated this. He hated himself and his goddamn shit...  
  
He read Artie four stories, instead of two, Raylan a long-legged sprawl on the floor by his feet, Artie on his chest with his stuffed monkey.  
  
Raylan was a good dad, Tim thought as he picked Artie up off of him to get him into his bed, for all that he'd started out at it so shitty.  _He_ wasn’t an asshole dad.  
  
Maybe Tim could bring himself back around. Maybe he wouldn't stay fucked up and fucking up his kid. 

He toyed with picking Raylan up, but realized Raylan would get downright cranky if he did that, so he just kissed him awake, helped him up, and went to bed with him. Tomorrow… tomorrow was a different day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I so hope you enjoyed this chapter! A comment would make my day, and help me get over some of the ouch that came from writing this chapter... trust me, it hurt.


	3. But I'll find grace in pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim makes some decisions. One decision leads to another, to another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be three chapters, but my Tim muse said 'hahahaha, no. Here, have some more', so here I am, and here it is. I hope you enjoy!

He woke up sweating and shaking on the floor in front of Artie's room, Raylan's arms wrapped around him. "He's okay," Raylan whispered, and Tim curled up, closing his eyes, "He's okay, Tim, he's sleeping."  
  
This shit had to end.  He clung to Raylan a few more seconds and then dragged himself to his feet and downstairs. He got a glass of water, wished it was everclear, and turned on the tv.  Raylan followed him and laid his head on Tim's lap.  Tim stroked his hair as Raylan went back to sleep, and Tim stayed awake through the first three episodes of Star Wars: Rebels.  
  
In the morning, he called and got an appointment, packed a bag, and played legos with his son until it was time to go.  He held him too tightly, and breathed in the scent of his shampoo and the jam from breakfast he still had on his breath. "I love you, little man," he whispered, "I gotta go on a trip, like Raylan does, sometimes. Okay? I'll be back. You be good for Raylan?"  
  
Artie nodded, already distracted by his toys, and Tim kissed him one more time, straightened, and walked to the office.  Raylan gave him a little smile, but thank god he didn't say anything.  Tim kissed him lightly, and let himself be drawn down for a deeper kiss.  "I'll call," he said softly, "And let you know what's up. Thank you."  
  
"Take care of yourself, Tim."  
  
Tim nodded, extracted himself from Raylan's lap, and went down to his truck.

He pulled off in a little-trafficked area and leaned his forehead on the steering wheel. How many times had his dad said he’d stop drinking? Fifty a year, at least, every Sunday morning he could remember – he’d be drunk on the way home from work Mondays, beat the hell out of him for looking at him, or not looking at him, for being in the way, for hiding like a bitch… he shook his head, hard, fighting the memory back. No. That wasn’t him.

He couldn’t do that to his son. He could _not_ do that to his son. If this didn’t work…

He drove himself to the hospital, checked in, and got ready to deal with shit he sure as fuck didn't want to deal with, but he had a get well soon daddy card in his bag, and he wasn't about to let his boy down, and Raylan needed him, too.  
  
This... was gonna suck, but so had Ranger training.  Well. That had worked out in his favor in the end. So would this. He hoped.  
  
If not... well.  He wouldn't risk his boy or his partner.  His son _will not_ have an asshole father.

*

His therapist recommended in-patient therapy, and Tim accepted it.  He’d expected it, after all, but the sound of the door closing behind him, and turning over everything to the nice orderly… It felt like prison. Complete with cellmate. Said cellmate wasn’t a bad sort, introduced himself as Jackson, and went back to reading.

The schedule on his wall informed him that he had group therapy in half an hour, then crafts, then free time.  Good god.  Shoot him right the fuck now. This was fucking _humiliating –_ crafts? Really?

Well, at least there wasn’t a water challenge, he thought grimly, and put the clothes he’d been allowed to keep in the bedside drawers.  Back to basics, they’d said, and Tim mentally changed ‘basics’ to a capital B, and wondered if a drill sergeant would show up at some point.

Determining the layout and schedule and habits of those running the place took a few hours and attention, but it settled him down some. He didn’t pace, even though he wanted to.  The therapist in the after-dinner session commented that he seemed ‘so calm’, and Tim smiled through his teeth at him, darkly delighted at his continued ability to lie like nobody’s business…

That wasn’t why he was here, this wasn’t an endurance test, he needed to be honest, let them see that he needed to tear the world apart, needed to tear himself apart, that he had almost lost his son because he couldn’t control himself, _he was not calm_ -

He didn’t feel the withdrawals until lights out, and he gritted his teeth, fighting nausea and chills and the sound of helicopter rotors, lights flashing outside the windows and transforming the hospital into a bombed out building, hiding with Mark from Taliban as they waited for an exit – he held still, as still as he could, not daring to breathe as he stared at the ceiling.

The cellmate whispered, “Hey, man, you okay?”

 _Shut up, you idiot, they’ll hear you_ –

And the light flickered on, and Afghanistan was gone, leaving him in a hospital bed with cold feet and sweaty palms, stomach churning and…

He spent his night on his knees, throwing up. At some point they hooked him up to an IV, gave him meds for the nausea, to get him to calm down.  It took all of his self control not to fight the orderlies away, to submit to needles and hands and the physical presence of unfamiliar people. 

…was Artie sleeping okay?  Had Raylan remembered to give him his vitamins? Tim wanted nothing more than to see his son, see him breathing, pull the blanket over him, be sure his feet were covered and kiss his head.  Tears poured down his face, and Tim curled up on the floor of the bathroom, giving up for the night.  He’d try again in the morning, but tonight, he was losing.

_What are you losing?_

Everything.

Tim felt hungover and tired in the morning, but it was morning, and fuck being a pussy and giving up.  Fuck that.  He was going to get the fuck up, shower, dress, go work out, and beat this shit.  He’d worked too fucking hard to get to where he was to just give up, lay down, and die.

Mark would be ashamed if he did that. Raylan and Artie deserved better, and he’d give them that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave a comment! They encourage me to keep writing! Love it? Hate it?


	4. I'll know my name when it's called again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on and moving forward.

He was released with a prescription for bi-weekly counseling, medicine, and the recommendation he get into a program.  
  
Artie had missed him, but he was okay, and just as joyful as if Tim hadn't lost days- weeks- of time. The resilience of youth was a blessing, he thought.  Really, it was.  
  
Raylan was standing in the doorway as Tim scooped his baby – three years old wasn't a baby, but he would always be that tiny being he'd held in his hands - into his arms and held him like he couldn't bear to let go.  He smiled, tears making the hazel shine brighter than ever, and Tim closed his eyes so he didn't have to see what he'd done to his partner.  
  
He was _sorry._  
  
There weren't words for how sorry he was, or how much he wished he could go back to July third and stay home for the weekend, hiding out in the cool dark of the half-basement under his house. How much he wished  
he'd stayed in bed when Raylan begged him to, not gone downstairs and started pounding down the only medicine he knew to make himself stop...  
  
_That wasn't helpful_ , his inner sergeant informed him, _you fucked shit_ _up, get the fuck up, you piece of fucking shit, and stop wallering like a pig!_  
  
Tim opened his eyes and set his boy down, listening as he chattered about the new character on Sesame Street - another one? - and what he'd done in class.  And he'd helped make dinner!  
  
"Oh you did, did you?"  
  
"I did, Raylan helped, and we're having chicken cocky-tore."  
  
"Cacciatore," Raylan groaned, "You've gone an' raised a heathen child, Tim."  
  
"You helped," Tim informed him, "And I'm sure it'll be delicious. I can eat anything."  
  
"Anything?" Artie's eyes gleamed, "Can you eat..."  
  
"Not playing that game with you again," Tim said, "You got too gross last time."  
  
Artie laughed and ran inside, chanting something about poop sausages and snail cakes.  Lord knew, he was certainly raising a heathen child... "Hey, Raylan," Tim said slowly, "Thank you," he got inside the house, settling his bag on the floor to sort through for laundry, "For takin' care of him. Hell, takin' care of..."  
  
Raylan's arms were around him, and Tim held on as tight as he could. "I missed you," Raylan muttered.  
  
"I missed you, too. Raylan," Tim swallowed hard, "I know I messed up," he said, "I know it, and you know it.  And I get it if you don't... if you don’t wanna be with-”

“And miss out on chicken cocky-tore?” Raylan teased, holding him tighter, "Do you want me gone? Do you _need_ me gone?"  
  
"No. No, no. I want you here more than anything, but I don't want... god, Raylan, I don't wanna be Arlo, and I-" he forced himself to relax into Raylan pushing him back against the wall, the chair rail digging into his back.  
  
"You aren't," Raylan hissed, temper ignited, "Don't you *ever* say that!"

Tim swallowed hard, looking up at him, "I know I've hurt you, Raylan, and it's just luck I ain't hurt him yet."

 

"If you believed that," Raylan said quietly, not a whisper, but certainly not speaking to be heard by Tim’s son in the sitting room, "You and I both know you'd've gone and fed yourself to a goddamn gator, baby. You haven't hurt me.  Never in any serious way, Tim, you know I wouldn’t _let_ you."

 

...he did know that, and it was such a goddamn relief that he pressed his face to Raylan's chest and cried. Raylan held him, sliding them both down to the tile, cool and comforting.  Tim managed to keep quiet, muffling himself - half-suffocating himself - in Raylan's chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "Raylan, I want another shot, please?"

 

"I'm here. I'm here, and I ain't going anywhere, Tim. Okay? You and me, we're okay.  You're gonna be okay. It's gonna suck _ass_ , but..." Tim snorted, an inappropriate comment bubbling up and whispered in Raylan's ear, and Raylan paused, "My god, I forgot what it was like to hear you joke, you little jerk," he snickered, "Tim. I've missed you."

 

"Missed you, too," Tim said, wrapping around him like a virginia creeper, "Thank you."

 

"Don't go thanking me," Raylan said, "I don't want it. You're my Tim, darlin'.  And we'll get through this shit just like we get through everything. Together.  And grumpy."

 

Tim laughed, "And ice cream."

 

"And ice cream. C'mon. Let's go eat.  Artie's been very excited for you to try this - he picked out the recipe."

 

"How the hell'd he even find out about it?"

 

"He's been watching the Food Network."

 

"...really?"

 

"Yeah. It's kinda cute.  Got him to finally eat his green beans, when I let him heat them up."

 

"Huh. Wonder if there's hope for-"

 

"Peas? Nope. None at all. Still just picks out the carrots."

 

Tim sighed, levering himself off the floor and helping Raylan up. Hopefully it was just a phase...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed this installment of this series! There's still several more segments to come - please consider leaving me a comment. Every comment is treasured!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome, and keep me writing. Thank you all who have commented so far - they are all treasured.


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